


We Had Today

by verovex



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Coming Out, Ed Nygma Backstory No One Asked For, F/M, Hallucination Kristen Doesn't Hold Back, Hurt/Comfort, Internal Conflict, Internalized Homophobia, Isabella Doesn't Die, Jealousy, M/M, Murder, Past Child Abuse, S3 Divergence, Season/Series 03, Self-Acceptance, Violent Visual Hallucinations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 17:59:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19796104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verovex/pseuds/verovex
Summary: Ed wants answers to questions he didn't realize being with Isabella would force him to ask.





	We Had Today

**Author's Note:**

> Written to these [two](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=so8V5dAli-Q) [ songs](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=er_Od2sFvqE) on repeat. For reasons why fic writer is a moron and reposting this from a year and a half ago, please see end note.

Five years, ten, fifteen, twenty, a lifetime.

Edward could see it all with Isabella. Dozens of polaroids littered his floor in a game of fifty-two pickup, begging him to see what his future had in store. Enchanted by the delusion of it all. He sees the five-year mark when he gets down on one knee and asks for her hand in marriage. Perhaps sooner judging by how quickly everything else seemed to move. Maybe she would even—

Hears what sounds like glass split in the background. Hears his father in his ear reminding him men were the ones that asked, never the reverse.

Sees the forced smile on his face when Isabella says yes, continues to see the whirlwind romance between them, tethered with tight, mismatched coloured wrapping paper, topped with a neat bow, expiry date written on the side in red, things Ed doesn’t comprehend.

It lingers behind conversations, pops up in his peripheral when he regards his life or the version he’s started to skid into. Feels like he’s trapped behind the wheel, headed for a cliff around every bend. Can’t stop the impact with the guardrail, hears the windshield shatter, feels the wheel digging into his chest, suffocating him, reminding him he can’t breathe, can’t breathe, _can’t breathe_.

And then it’s ten years down the line when they have a child Edward doesn’t necessarily know how to love, just desperate to give Isabella what she desired most. She recognizes his disdain for children, even his own, constantly thinks she can change that. An all-inclusive American family with no room for chaos.

He can’t relate to the way she can play the role of a proper loving parent, showing the child how to prosper and be human in a way Edward can’t.

She repeatedly asks him for more, tells him on the steps of her home that she had always wanted four.

One would be fine, more than enough. One was easy to manage, control, punish. No, no, _nonono_ , not punish. Never. It would be different, Edward could be different than the example he had as a parent. The past didn’t pave the future, only left behind marks and an anchor.

Memories he hides when Isabella asks, behind specific clothing he doesn’t remove while she’s around. Knows there are questions about his habits, but answers he’s not willing to share, ones he wishes he didn’t need to.

Things she doesn’t understand, a list that grows every day, until it hovers above the ground, waiting for what’s next, for the other shoe to drop, waiting for it to wake Ed up.

She doesn’t understand that life’s not as pure as she fantasizes, that it isn’t built on the premise of books, things that tell her romance ends in death.

It very well could, but isn’t the point.

Her books continue to fuel this notion that they will be together until death does them apart, and it’s not long before he finds Kristen next to their bed, heart in hand, knife in the other, blood dripping onto nothing, the chill of her voice in his ear despite the distance, _‘isn’t this how it ends?’_

It’s not, it's not, it’s not, despite the warning signs telling him the opposite, the blinking yellow lights telling him to go back at the next juncture, don’t take that corner.

Ed perseveres, shoos Kristen from his mind as she feeds him variations of how Isabella may— _'will_ ,’ Kristen reminds him—die. From trips to the grocery store where they stop at the butcher and Kristen lays her head under the meat cutter, setting herself up for execution by guillotine.

Ed tries to pay attention to Isabella as she asks what meat he’d prefer— _‘anything really’_ —as Kristen picks her head up from the floor, displaying it on the scale in front of them.

When they’re on a walk through Gotham’s Botanical Gardens, Kristen’s made a show of using the garden shears, clipping at her waist until she is separated in halves, making a point of trailing her blood around the fountain in the centre of the park.

Kristen practically dances as she moves, while Isabella talks again of children and some bright future they're meant to have.

Edward visibly gulps, saliva heavy like sand down his throat, fingers twitching in his pockets, a red haze over the otherwise sunny park and pure blue skies, clear fountain water tainted by blood as Kristen jumps into it.

Isabella doesn’t see it.

Ed only attains a semblance of calm when they pass City Hall, faltering at the sight of its tall columns, watching as various staff members meander into the entrance. Isabella tugs at his sleeve, tells him he’s on vacation. Vacation so generously granted by his employer when Isabella practically begged it from him.

Then Ed finds himself distracted by the thought of Oswald, enough that it gets him back to Isabella’s home in quiet peace, but is left wondering when they’d last talked.

When their time together meant Kristen wouldn't materialize, where her bitter memory didn’t plague his mind. Something like a sticky note presses itself to the back of his mind — if she was always there, why hadn’t she been with him?

Edward sees fifteen years in the future, sees the hollow happiness that hangs around their home like vapid soot. Hears himself say _‘I love you’_ the way it sounds like a habit, more as a formality to ascertain this version of their normality, not as impassioned as he envisioned it should be.

He could see Isabella loving him his whole life, as she undoubtedly would if given the opportunity, catering to his every whim, affirming, but redirecting every step he took, leading him into an abyss of her own choosing, a creation of her own making, one that ultimately stated: _‘this is normal, this is right, this is okay.’_

All things his father would agree on, could hear him behind every turn, telling him he made the right call, that Isabella was his be-all and end-all, that no one else could ever compare.

Isabella was someone his mother would say reminded her of her younger self, that Isabella had bright eyes, an eagerness to please, self-deprecating laughter as she warned her: _‘must be cautious of that tongue though, Nashton men are very particular.’_

Edward could see fights that would end in tears of reconciliation, when he was too invested in his side-projects, when she found him sleep-fucked. Overturned or smashed coffee mugs scattered in pieces around the concrete floor of their icy cold basement. Likely muttering to himself about things she couldn’t possibly understand, but she’d try, _oh_ would she ever try.

She’d read books, nose deep in desperation to piece together who Edward was, to fathom things that didn’t even concern her. Things she didn’t need to be worried about, things she needed to simply accept. There was nothing else for them to share. She’d be at her peak with him. But there was nothing else.

Edward was her sun, her moon, her stars, the epicentre of everything she craved most in the world. Twelve hours and the dawn of a new day had aided her to come to that conclusion. As if she’d been put on this planet solely for him.

Isabella gave Edward white-picket fences and warm comfort in a realm where assassination attempts, bullet holes, and monsters were rendered as consequences to one’s attempt at thriving.

Isabella was safe, every part of Kristen he had adored, with all the accompanying tweaks and adjustments. Things he wouldn’t have changed even if she was still alive.

Isabella was an evolved— _'devolved,’_ Kristen would correct—puzzle piece that slotted itself where it didn’t necessarily belong.

Familiar and every bit as pure, with a whisper of danger if you were listening for the correct chord.

. . .

Edward finds the longer he dwells on his time with Isabella—keeping track when she tells him she loves him, when she poses a riddle, when she picks the right wine, when she cooks his favourite food—he starts to feel more and more confined, counting down the days until he’s meant to return to work, where he’s needed in a different capacity, where his brain is utilized in full-form.

Her lips thin into a line, brows coming together as she continues in a conversation she’d solely taken part in, “when we move out of Gotham—"

“What?” Edward blurts.

Oh good, he was still in there. “Did you think we’d live here forever? Heavens, with all the crime and murder—"

“My job is here. The Mayor relies on my duties as his Chief of Staff.”

“There’s always someone around to take your place. Plus, that’s not forever,” Isabella waves a hand in the air, dismissive of Edward’s concerns, “friendships and priorities change, people grow older, drift apart.”

Perhaps it had been Edward’s own naïve fantasy that they’d play politics for as long as—well, he hadn’t envisioned an ending at all. Oswald came with blank pages, no indication of how Edward should plan accordingly, what role he’d play, nothing to truly cement what would be their end game.

With Isabella, he’d seen the lines written, amongst the stars she’d say.

_‘On a gravestone,’_ Kristen would taunt.

“We can revisit the subject once you’ve moved out of that mansion.”

_Here with me, stay with me, die with me, murder me._

Kristen is especially vivid now, Edward tries to focus his gaze on the real person in front of him, but the hallucination is standing directly beside Isabella, canting her head from side to side, visually inspecting the double.

_‘More of me here than at that mansion.’_ Oh, it’s true, so very true.

Edward reminds himself that he loves her, he loves her, he loves her, there is no one else, there is nothing else while Kristen makes a spectacle of snapping her neck to the side, eyes dark with intent, _‘how’s that working out for you?’_ head still twisted as she leaves her hands around the base of her neck, _‘you’d rather make it a little more personal, I’m sure.’_

Edward thinks about the mansion instead, reminds himself there are still safe spaces he can return to, how the mansion walls had manifested into some protective hold, had kept the thoughts at bay.

Oswald had kept him distracted, fed into his most viable traits, showed him a world so different than the one Isabella has him looped into.

Reminds himself that the only reason he’s not still entombed in the hell hole that was Arkham is because of Oswald, and he should be more present in his life as a best friend, Edward’s only friend, the one who gave him a chance at happiness, a chance at a life renewed.

“Moving out of the mansion would only belittle everything he’s given me,” Edward argues and Kristen smirks, head aligning itself properly with her body.

It’s the first time he’s told Isabella some variation of no, a decision that is his own, a sliver of courage to stand up for himself. They had so much time, there was no rush.

He’d been so lucky to be given another try.

“He’s a dangerous man, Eddie.”

_Eddie, Eddie, Eddie,_ it rings in his ears, sees his father in the corner of the room, tsk’ing somewhere next to Kristen, _‘your current living arrangements aren’t normal.’_

Something about living with a man, something about the way in which they dote on one another is wrong, something about how strange it is that Ed could be so devoted to him.

Remarks which make him go rigid where he stands, wanting nothing more than to trace the line of his arm with the edge of his nails.

Adjusts his glasses up the ridge of his nose instead.

Isabella is normal, normal, _normal_.

Edward nods, realizing Isabella is staring at him, open-mouthed and waiting for a reply. She looks over her shoulder to see where his gaze is directed towards, but she can’t see them, she doesn’t know about them.

She’s already made up his mind for him, what more is he supposed to say?

It’s the way it always was, people telling him how to act, how to dress, how to respond, how to work — _‘God, Ed, another riddle? Don’t you ever stop asking questions?’_

Kept their distance, subtle tuts and insults, masquerades of _‘he’s just a little different,’_ pretending not to follow up with, _‘isn’t he a freak?’_

Couldn’t even make friends because none of them matched his expectations, couldn’t answer the simplest queries, carry conversations, didn’t want to associate themselves with the boy who tried too hard and always knew too much.

The boy that cheated to try to be the best, not that it had ever worked in his favour. Received the spiel about how worthless he still was— _would always be_. Affirmed by how the kids the next day were still too intimidated to be real friends with him, just wanted the mild interaction to inflate his ego and perhaps keep him from continuously out showing them if they gave him a little of the attention he so desperately desired.

Why did everyone always need to keep him subdued? Cut him off before he could start, T-boned before he could say he simply wanted to be understood, wanted to stop being the object of all his parents’ arguments.

Now all he wants is to return from the leave bestowed on him, where he can make decisions because it’s his job, it’s what Oswald relies on him for, where comfort lies in how needed and appreciated he is, a vestibule where he can breathe.

. . .

Commuting from Isabella’s to City Hall proves to be much quicker than from the mansion, something he could add as a pro to the ongoing list of many cons.

Kristen cackles behind him as he travels up the steps, entirely silenced as the doors close, putting a barrier between them.

It’s been three weeks since he’d been with Isabella. Three weeks of being allowed the chance to explore their relationship.

Three weeks of very little peace.

Edward finds Oswald with a stack of papers next to him at his desk. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t bat an eye, perhaps assumes it’s someone else as Edward approaches the desk.

There are lines in the details, like how Oswald knows it’s Edward, can tell by the distinctive, familiar sound of his uneven steps from putting too much weight on his left side.

Wonders if Oswald is trying to make a point, equates him with other underlings he doesn’t raise his head for. Had it been that long? Had he been forgotten so quickly?

Edward feels a flutter in his chest, forcing him to catch his breath, clears his throat to try to garner Oswald’s attention.

Oswald finally looks up, glare softening immediately, lips curling into a smile at Edward’s presence. It brings a wave of colour to an otherwise dulled set of lenses, Ed realizes, feeling an overwhelming amount of happiness raining down on him, parting the sea of worry he’d held in his chest.

“I was beginning to think you’d never come back,” Oswald comments, gait heavy as he gets up from the chair, circling his desk to stand in front of him. Oswald reaches out, giving Edward’s forearm a light squeeze, noting Edward’s flinch at the touch, Oswald drawing back his arm immediately.

It wasn’t because Edward minded, realizing his mistake at the hurt that flashes across Oswald’s features. In truth it had set his whole body into an inexplicable sensory overload, wanting nothing more than to pull Oswald into an embrace, divulge the innumerable torments from the last three weeks, tell him how much he dreamed of returning to work, returning to the mansion, wanting to go back to the way things were.

Wanted to say he should’ve never gone back to see her after Oswald tried to break things off, for him.

_‘Just like you to let others fight your battles.’_ It’s faint, but there, the sound of combat boots marking the floor of Oswald’s office with river water, the figment of his imagination taking shape. Edward finds focus in reading the lines of Oswald’s face instead, breathes in the flowery scent of cologne they’d purchased together nearly a month prior.

Finds his gaze shifting to Oswald’s chosen outfit of the day, focused on the grey merino wool blend (no doubt picked due to the sudden shift to cooler weather), with darker grey thin vertical candy stripes that hardly look like they’re there without being close enough to tell, single-breasted, rounded hemline, wide notch lapels with a velvet collar, Ed tries to remember if this is the one with the black paisley print as the lining. Ed keeps himself from reaching out to check.

Oswald looks exhausted and sad, falsified by the grin he reads behind, and it makes him want to wipe away whatever is causing him to look that way, tear them apart from limb to limb, string them up as a sweeping proclamation across Gotham’s stage. Should find the will to refrain from the actual temptation, watching as Oswald retreats to the refuge of his chair behind his desk, marking an island of space between them.

Edward’s eyes trace the accents in the fabric at Oswald’s wrists as the object of his attention props an elbow on his desk, opening one of the many folders there, lips moving as if he’s been speaking for however long Ed hasn’t been listening, now caught in the details of the silver-stitched umbrellas on his cuffs.

Slowly zones back in when there’s no threat of his father in the air.

Oswald talks about what’s occupied the Mayor’s office the last number of weeks, problems with the underworld, information Ed knows only he is privy to. Then Oswald talks about how much work Stemmel’s taken on, much more than he thought he’d be capable of, finds Oswald mentioning that _‘perhaps he can take over some of your duties more permanently.’_

Edward feels frozen in place, shoes filled with lead, room dark despite the parted curtains, voice thick as he wonders if he misheard, “what?”

Oswald shrugs, and it drives a hole so deep through Ed’s chest he didn’t think it was possible, faint sounds of cackling invading his only reprieve from the source, “I understand that you might not be so inclined to continue in your role given... everything—” _Isabella_ , “—cutting out half of your responsibilities would help you adapt to your change in lifestyle.”

The half that keeps Edward invested in the part that defines Oswald the most, he notes. “I’m perfectly capable of continuing in both roles you appointed me to.”

“I didn’t suggest you weren’t. The option is there, if you so choose.”

Edward chooses to fester in a pool of anger, listening intently as Oswald talks about the abysmal schedule Stemmel has arranged for the week, steers away from making a comment on Stemmel’s incompetence at arranging the appropriate time for Oswald’s meals, and the lack of ‘strategy planning’ in the calendar.

Can rest easy that he’s still quite needed, despite Oswald’s nonsensical suggestion.

They fall back in patterns Edward has grown accustomed to, found ease in, an amalgamation of his greater qualities, every bit that teetered on two sides of a coin, checked off boxes that could appease all his hallucinations.

It’s not until Isabella makes a habit of visiting during lunch hours that Edward notices the shift, the chasm Oswald creates between them in her wake. Oswald makes a point of being terse, disappears regularly with a comment about needing to be anywhere else, leaving an unsettling pit of discomfort whenever Edward watches him go.

Starts to notice that there’s something different about the way Oswald talks to him, handles him. The way he makes an effort to actively avoid him completely when Isabella is around, seems to have their timings memorized to ensure they don’t cross paths.

When they do have the unfortunate circumstance of forced interactions, typically at the mansion, Edward hears the subtle change in Oswald’s tone, like the way he talks to those far beneath him. The way the venom in it leeches its way through the carpet underneath Isabella’s feet, leaves impressions on the floor when it fails to snatch her from the hold Edward has around her waist.

Finds himself bearing an embarrassed flush whenever Oswald finds them in precarious situations, normally in a lip lock that prompts the Mayor’s quick escape to the master bedroom for the night, without ever hearing Ed’s stuttered apologies.

Realizes Oswald no longer seems comfortable in his own home with her around, sees the way his fingers dance along the edge of the dining room table while Isabella pushes a forkful of Filet Mignon between her teeth, knows Oswald’s fingers hover directly above one of several concealed pistols in the dining room.

Hears quiet scoffs behind that day’s Gotham Gazette while Isabella talks animatedly about her and Edward’s future.

. . .

The first time Edward thought he might not be ‘normal’ like his parents wanted him to be was at age ten. When a weekly visit to a friend of his father’s brought him to a house in the suburbs of Metropolis to see this friend and his ten-year-old son — Julian.

While his own father and the friend played pool, darts, whatever adults did, Edward and Julian were watching The Sword in the Stone, as they had alternated between different Disney movies every week.

Edward was always curious, of many things, from math to biology, to why his mother had male friends over whenever his father left for work, sometimes other women, leaving him to wonder why she kept them all behind closed doors.

Julian asked him sometime when Arthur wanted to vacate his duties of King, “have you ever kissed someone before?”

And Ed had wanted to lie, to seem as ‘cool’ as his friend likely was, but said, “no,” sounding as small as he was, prior to the growth spurt that came four years later.

“Do you want to try with me?”

As ironic as it seemed, this led them to be cooped up in the closet of Julian’s room, kissing flat-lipped and purely experimental.

It didn’t feel like anything, not until the closet door was nearly ripped off its hinges, then a young Edward only felt intense fear. Julian’s father came through like a tornado, taking Julian from his place, hand winding back to smack Julian clean across the cheek.

Edward’s own father stood by to witness another hit, before pulling Edward out of the room in a flash, and practically dragged him from the house. His shouts loud and shrill, a demonstration for all the neighbours to hear, while he tossed him into the backseat of the car, following up with obscenities and various counts of _‘my son won’t be_ — _,’ ‘this isn’t right,’ ‘we’ll get you fixed,’ ‘this isn’t normal.’_

Despite the redness across his cheeks and a purple bruise against his eye the next day showing the damage left behind, the punishment that hurt Ed the most had been that he was never allowed back at the house again.

Subsequently, Edward’s father took it as his personal duty to educate his son on the importance of publicly acceptable norms, indecency, the bible definition of misconstrued notions, when all young Edward wants an answer to is: _‘Why is any of it so wrong?’_ Instead finds an impression left on his life that not all questions have answers.

Nearly twenty years later, Edward’s staring at an old newspaper clipping, Isabella cooking in the kitchen. The article talks about some fatal car accident, off a bridge into the river outside Waterbury, mother and father dead, left behind a son who’d recently graduated high school. No evidence of foul play despite the cut brake lines they failed to find.

Isabella asks about it, Edward states it’s a cold case that had been bothering him since his time at the GCPD. She places a kiss to his temple, tells him some things should just be let go.

Kristen hangs herself in the living room.

Edward presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose, tossing the newspaper to the floor. His mother wasn’t supposed to be in the vehicle, meant to be at work and away from the carnage. It hadn’t really mattered. She never stopped him from being hit, from the yelling, or his father terrorizing every aspect of his life, telling him over and over that only one thing was right, only one way was the right way, that he needed to be whatever he wanted him to be, not what Edward wanted to be, who Edward wanted to be, who Edward wanted to be with.

And now, he’s living out the picturesque version of a life that his father wanted him to live.

This version of _‘normal’_ , defined by a man six-feet-under. Straight and narrow, enough edge that was proper for a family, _‘kept the woman in line’_ , ensure she knew her place, gave her the right to bear his children, gave her the role of a stay-at-home mother.

He was growing up to be exactly what his father had thought he should be, even though he could no longer scar him. Was still without the strength to make his life his own. Followed the footsteps of a ghost.

. . .

Oswald, who is normally colourful and chronically curious about all that made up Edward Nygma, has grown quiet, every day more so than the last, no matter what Edward says, does, prompts, nothing draws the same encouraging or titillating conversations. Oswald becomes more secluded and detached as time passes.

Edward feels hurt when conversations are cut short, when Tarquin’s opinions carry more weight than they should, when he feels like he’s on the precipice of being abandoned. Tarquin was second-rate, a consolation prize in comparison with all Ed could provide.

Surely Oswald knew that.

Despite Edward’s protest, Oswald still hands off a brunt of his responsibilities to Tarquin. At first, Edward doesn’t notice, too consumed in fixing the myriad of mistakes his alternate has accrued over the weeks he’s been away, and by chance happens to come to a bout of situational awareness concerning their interactions.

Typically, he hadn’t noticed Tarquin waiting outside the Mayor’s office, his lunch hours were spent with Isabella most days. Tarquin was making a vain attempt at being discreet, side-eyeing Edward as he left, then waiting until he’s mostly out of sight to make a beeline for Oswald’s office.

This poses a concern. Edward thinks there might be something innately wrong with Tarquin, has a feeling that he might be a threat to the establishment Oswald’s worked so hard to build, as Butch had. Worries the more Oswald gives away, the greater risk he puts on all their progress.

Isabella’s earlier comment comes to mind, feels like a burning itch at skin-level, _‘there’s always someone to take your place.’_

He’s worked too hard to get here, to reap Oswald’s regard, captivated since the first case file that came across his desk.

It’s three weeks of this and one ‘secret’ meeting too many that make Edward feel erratic, specifically after Oswald comes out to meet Tarquin in the hallway, smile on his lips, hand on Tarquin’s shoulder, pulling him inside like conspirators working to keep Edward out.

“Oh my, oh no.”

Edward doesn’t know why he’s surprised that Tarquin’s blood is on his hands two hours later.

Ledger increased by one. Had leapt into a shift of blind white-hot rage, leaving behind what felt like it couldn’t be a hallucination, when the blood spatter doesn't disappear from his cuffs, and Tarquin remains unmoving on the floor of Edward’s office.

Kristen erupts in laughter from the corner of the room, no longer confined by glass doors. Sees his thoughts before they fracture his mind, reminding him she knew before he knew. Something about how Tarquin had never done anything wrong in his life, had been a consequence of Edward’s sheer je—

Edward shakes his head from side to side, stomach roiling, bracing his knees to his chest from his seat on the floor next to Tarquin’s body, already entering autolysis. Edward flings the butterfly knife to the other side of the room. Feels something akin to spiralling out of control, wonders why it’s only Kristen’s voice in his mind, telling him over and over, she knows why, she knows, _she knows_.

Full stop. Knows what?

He doesn’t hear the door open to his office, doesn’t hear it quickly slam shut. Should’ve been more concerned about the feeling of eyes boring over him, but Kristen’s too busy telling him what a fool he is.

He does hear the lock turning, something he forgot he had. He feels unsteady legs slowly come around to drop down behind him, spreading to either side of his hips. Finds arms around his shoulders, pulling him back flush against the comfort of familiar wool fabric.

“Gabe? Send clean up to Ed’s office. Twenty minutes.”

Edward hears the cell phone snap shut, finds himself turning to be seated more comfortably, to curl up against his chest, listening to how Oswald’s heartbeat matches his.

“I guess that’s one way to dispose of the help,” Oswald remarks after some time, doesn’t follow up with asking Edward why. The horror-stricken expression on Edward’s face was enough of an unspoken explanation. Oswald understood him better, didn’t need him to say it in so many words, simply knew he needed to be present in the aftermath of any misstep Edward took.

Things Isabella wouldn’t know what to do, books didn’t tell you how to manhandle a psychopath without the appropriate licensing, or just the simple instruction of don’t date one.

Oswald though, who accepts all part of him with zero judgments, knows who to be when the time calls for it, when he’s telling Edward with his actions that he’d do anything for him too. They’re one in the same, evened out one another’s battlefields. Ever-endearing Oswald, who was so sure about himself in ways Edward wasn’t, who knew who he was, knew who everyone was, knew what he wanted, while Edward was a mess taking up one of his many spare bedrooms.

On good days Edward still didn’t know right from left, up from down, could tell you verbatim the content of an eight-hundred-page textbook, but didn’t know it was okay to feel something for how his best friend has his arms wrapped around him.

Because despite the fact Kristen is eerily quiet, his father is not. Ringing in his ears, reminding him again, over and over how being affectionate was meant strictly for a relationship with the opposite sex.

He couldn’t find it in himself to care anymore.

They’re forced apart when there’s knocking at the office door, rattling of the doorknob. Oswald orders Gabe to bring the car around and take Edward home. Home, home, home, not where Isabella is, but where it’s quiet, where mansion walls keep the demons shut out, reaffirming the way Oswald brings peace to all his turmoil.

Oswald has the mess cleaned up without a second thought. Comes home to the mansion that evening, talks to Edward like nothing’s amiss. Tarquin had been an insignificant pawn in the large scheme of things, held no importance the way Edward did.

They talk about everything else, unrelated to work, the way they used to when he had first been sprung from Arkham. Talked the way friends did, conversed in ways Edward could with no one else, open in a way he needs to bite his tongue around Isabella, consciously worried with her about what he might let slip.

Next time Edward’s in his office, there’s nothing left as evidence of what had occurred, Tarquin’s resignation letter on his desk, perfectly forged signature, left to be filed with Human Resources. The letter talks about Tarquin leaving to work abroad, forwarding address stapled to the top left corner of the page.

. . .

Edward knows it’s not the same when his fingers brace Oswald’s elbow, finding any excuse to touch him whenever he can, synapses failing to connect to correctly pave the way to why.

Catches Oswald before he can stalk away from a particularly frustrating meeting with Barbara at the helm, questioning Oswald’s priorities between City Hall and the world he’d been neglecting thus far, despite all evidence to the contrary.

They’ve worked diligently to ensure nothing had changed, to keep everything afloat, Barbara was stirring to see who’d jump out of the pot with her, no doubt still reeling from Tabitha vacating rank. No one did. Not with how confident Oswald was, especially now, with how much power he had wearing two hats.

Why bother?

“Take a breath,” Edward mutters, fingers tightening as Oswald tries to snatch his arm away. “You won.”

“I am aware.”

“Then what’s got you so bothered?”

“She is trying to push—”

“She’s trying to make you react, in some manner that will push you off a cliff you can’t climb back up from.”

“My concern lies more in the fact you, my friend, are on that edge with me.”

Perhaps Edward shouldn’t have read into it the way he had, should’ve taken it as a comment from a friend, but it hit him like a wrecking ball. Oswald wanted nothing more than to protect him, keep him safe, cared more for him than he cared for himself.

Felt something align, from the way he enjoyed being close to Oswald’s side, the way he enjoyed keeping Oswald in place, fingers trapped around rich fabric, an unsettling ripple that travelled down his spine as the seconds ticked by. He still didn’t fully understand, but he was so tired of the distance which had wedged itself between them in the form of Isabella. He wanted nothing more than to slot the pieces back together, mark his territory where it has always been.

Edward moves in impulsively when Oswald tries to step back.

Edward briefly thinks about how when he kisses Isabella it’s warm and practised, tastes like what he thinks normal is supposed to feel like, tastes like it's written in rulebooks, set to the beat of what he’s been told a relationship should be — not that he’s ever had the experience of a healthy relationship to begin with.

Doesn’t know why he completely fills the space between them with one fluid step, doesn’t know why he dips down, covering Oswald’s lips with his own, the way he does, why he does, how he does, where he does, why, why, why he does.

Edward thinks about how when he kisses Oswald it’s a rushed, toothy mess, finds himself pushed, back colliding with the wall of the mansion, mouth hanging open to gasp from the jolt of pain, Oswald using the leverage to slide his tongue along Edward’s, can feel the heat radiating from the flush adorning Oswald’s skin, wonders if Oswald feels the burn of his own.

The seconds stretch to minutes, feels like time moves slower between them. Feels like it’s the only moment they’ll ever have, as if separation meant a permanent closure. A binding conniption, Oswald tastes of wine and temperance, of haze and corruption, of a play with power and a dance of destruction and chaos, rewriting every memory Edward has of previous experiences with the two before.

Fingers in his hair, pulling back at the roots, it feels icy hot, like it would take years to wash him off. Years to defrost, years to become done up again, yet Edward had never felt so unbelievably whole, letting himself go for what had always been lurking. Awakened now. Provided clarity in the blur.

Oswald pulls back.

Ed’s sight tunnels.

He’s made a mistake, a horrible, can never turn-back-the-clock kind of mistake, the thing that people don't normally forgive of a partner, something that forces him to remember what his mother used to justify as: _‘Daddy doesn’t know what we neglect to tell him.’_

None of this was Oswald’s fault, just a bystander to all of Ed’s confusion. Ed’s at fault, always curious Edward, needed answers to what should’ve been left alone, dragging others through the dirt. It’s not regret he feels, he needed to understand the flutter in his chest, the trembling ache in his bones, hadn’t thought of the repercussions, hadn’t planned this out, had wanted to subside the desperation to constantly be the centre of Oswald’s universe.

It has Edward out of the room in a flash, one hand up to his lips in shock, overwhelmed with... shame towards his own actions.

Oswald watches him go, doesn’t try to follow, has the fingers of his right hand to his lips with the most self-indulgent grin Edward doesn’t have the pleasure of viewing.

. . .

Edward could still see the lifetime with Isabella when he focuses, lets two weeks go by in silence between him and her, him and he.

He sees the sunshine, blue skies, sees Isabella’s warm smile beckoning him in, his father’s nod of approval in the east. Knows that the Edward he could be isn’t safe but it’s collected and composed. Normal. The other side locked away in the crevices of the world Isabella provided.

In turn, sees the lilac hue cascading a haze on Oswald’s world, sees the storm clouds in the west, the torrential downpour of all the uncertainty it would provide. Oswald, who understands ambition and drive, would open him up for everyone to see, send him out to be whoever he wanted to be, and always be there for him to return to.

Sees where green meets purple, in a way that made planets shift, claimed the edges of worried distrust, brought down light for what they could be, two halves that made a whole, where Gotham begged from the snap of their fingers.

Where Oswald wouldn’t fall from his perch because Edward would be there to reinforce the fastenings, prepared to fix the pieces, prevent the collapse before it could even occur.

None of that fits into already-etched-in-stone plans, nothing with Oswald means white-picket fences. Isabella wasn’t complicated, she was a sure thing.

Kristen Kringle is especially clear in his ear while he sits in Isabella’s home, reminding him how much he doesn’t deserve her, doesn’t deserve any aspect of her, even if it’s a carbon copy that doesn’t mind filling in with things that had Kristen running for her life. Always finalizing her thoughts with another show, hallucinations that disappear with the comfort when Oswald is present, supportive, understanding.

Thus, finds himself looking for Oswald’s aid over Isabella’s.

They don’t talk about the moment shared between them, not directly anyway. Edward divulges he hadn’t grown up on accepting these parts of himself he adamantly ignores, states that they don’t make sense. Is happy that Oswald can be so accepting despite being—

“I’m not—Ed. I’m gay, and there is nothing wrong with that.”

Oh.

Of course, Oswald makes it sound so easy to say out loud. Everything in Edward’s mind sounds untuned. Edward fidgets next to him on the couch, finds them knee to knee, Oswald’s hand over his own, wanting nothing more than to feel the comfort around his shoulders only Oswald could provide.

Feels more confused now with that newest piece of information, sometimes forgets that people aren’t scared to acknowledge what’s inside, have already come to terms with what was always there, aren’t ashamed, didn’t have parents that told them how anyone who strayed from heteronormativity deserved to be beaten or hung.

Edward talks about Kristen breaching his relationship with Isabella. Oswald scoffs. Edward smiles.

Talks about his endless appreciation for Oswald’s patience.

Prompts Oswald to ask, “then tell me, what are you so scared of?”

It echoes around the room, encircles them, makes Edward dizzy in a way that doesn’t solely stem from the question itself. Seems so direct, so simple, resonates with Edward in a way that makes him feel like he could collapse, as if the words are burrowing themselves inside his chest, ripping through the cartilage, curdling their way around the thin walls of his heart, peeking inside to make a list of all that’s wrong, to remind him again that none of this makes sense, yet somehow does all at the same time.

Edward wants to see how Oswald sees him, wants a sliver of Oswald to hold forever, give him everything he wanted, he’d do anything.

But he sees the shadow of his father in passing alleys on the daily, hears the faint sound of a belt smacking against skin, wonders if Oswald has as many scars as he does. Wonders if Oswald understands he’s more monstrous than what’s on display. Wonders if Oswald will accept him for all that stands in their way.

“I don’t know,” he answers, as honestly as he thinks he’s being, albeit fear causing a hitch in his throat.

“You do know,” Oswald sighs particularly loud, “what do you expect from me?”

“To help me.”

“I am trying to help you, but I cannot make a decision of this magnitude for you,” Oswald’s grip is tight and reassuring around his wrist, travelling to uncurl Edward’s clenched fist over his knee, rotates his grip to place their palms against one another. Oswald drags their hands up to press his lips to Ed’s knuckles. “You need to learn the importance of coming to this conclusion for yourself, to see the beauty in it. I can only be here as a friend, or more, for whatever you decide.”

Edward didn’t realize _‘I love you’_ could sound so formidably poignant without actually hearing it at all.

. . .

Edward doesn’t need a push, is outside Isabella’s door later that evening, more comfortable with their end than he’d ever been before, has the brief thought that this had been the same spot he’d been nearly two months prior, after a failed attempt of a break-up.

He feels hurt by the tears in her eyes, but she offers him a sad smile, asks him if there’s someone else. Ed doesn’t answer.

“Is it Oswald?” She asks, smile knowing. He doesn’t need to say it for her to know, following up with a rhetorical question Edward would love to answer anyway, “you two do seem like a better fit, don’t you?”

She asks Edward to leave, wishes them her best. A chapter closes, a father silent.

Edward’s in control.

. . .

“We broke up.”

Oswald wants to be supportive, Edward sees it but sees the glimmer of a smile first, then there’s a sympathetic, “Oh?” that drips from his lips.

Edward wonders how long Oswald’s known this would happen, a path paved long ago, needing Edward to arrive on his own.

No meddling, no ill-will, always filled in the blanks of what Edward couldn’t, had clawed his way so deep inside.

Edward doesn’t know if it makes him angry or elated that Oswald’s always so ahead, settles for somewhere in the middle. Situates himself with his head on Oswald’s lap, feet hitting one end of the couch, Oswald’s fingers card through his hair.

They don’t talk about what that means for them right away. It takes a day or two, maybe a week before they do. Coming to love someone didn’t need to be someone else’s definition of normal, but Edward’s own, he was meant to set his own example. He had put off understanding how much Oswald meant to him for too long.

Finds himself slotted against Oswald’s side on the couch again, another day, fire roaring, soft music playing from the radio, listening to him talk about Barbara’s newest scheme, caring very little about how he interrupts his chatter, turning Oswald’s chin towards him, leaning down to press his lips to his.

Being out tasted like freedom, returned flavour to a bland façade, which had been clinging to the refuge of fear that had been instilled in Edward since he was ten.

It was nothing short of extraordinary, felt like there was a whole new world playing at his fingertips, begging him to take the reins and venture long and far, explore new maps and chart domains he didn’t know could exist, with Oswald at his side, always at his side, showing him, teaching him, telling him like a song on repeat there was nothing wrong with him.

After wading through a strenuous bout of denial, they’ve reached their set destination at the same time.

Edward knows he can’t see years, days, even minutes into the future with Oswald, but knows they’re meant to share a lifetime. It's a start. Acceptance had never been so clear.

**Author's Note:**

>  **You made it to the end!** If you remember reading this, I'm sorry that I'm reposting it and flooding the feed. I do also apologize in general for deleting everything. Since posting this fic and all the others that came after, I've been having a lot of struggles that inevitably led to me feeling a little paranoid and very inadequate and insecure based on general feedback (or, lack thereof). I realize a lot of people look at fic/general content creating like it's: _"not srs bsns Vero, calm down you're not that important,"_ but I gained a lot of introspection and catharsis from putting parts of myself on the internet, like all the bits of me that went into this fic. I appreciate every kudos and comment left on my fics, but I want to stress that if you like something, please tell that person. You don't know how hard it was for them to post at all, let alone how it took weeks, months, or years for them to create something for you to enjoy. This goes for everything, from fics, to beautiful fanart, to stunning gifs, to fanvids, support your content creators. It's really easy for people to be like: "I don't need to validate a stranger," but honestly, that validation sometimes helps us step off a ledge, it could be the only support someone has. Gotham fandom has been really important to me and I've met the best people from it, so please, don't forget to share your love.


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